


Resolution

by HisMightyShield



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Diary/Journal, Discovery, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisMightyShield/pseuds/HisMightyShield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police headquarters.</i> (<a>The Six Napoleons</a>) ...Of course, there was quite a bit more behind Lestrade’s frequent vists, as Watson explains in these, formerly unpublished private journals</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**_From the Personal Journals of Dr. John H. Watson_**  
 _Discovered beneath the floorboards of the upstairs bedroom in 221b Baker Street and published by Cambridge University Press, 1971_

Sherlock Holmes has never been particularly kind when it comes to my artistic embellishments. As a man driven by the facts of a case, nuance and potboiling is almost completely lost on him. But I will say that he has always been rather gentle when it comes to my representations or as the case may sometimes be -- misrepresentations -- of myself. I hope no one will be too ashamed of me here, if I admit that there are a few details slipped into my stories as a result of my feeling altogether inadequate standing next to the world’s greatest detective. I have never been so bold as to enhance my _intellectual_ prowess -- but I’ve certainly been foolish enough to aggrandise my prowess of a different nature.

Even as I write this I realise it is quite unlikely anyone will take interest in these writings. I know that the stage belongs to Holmes; great thespian that he always proved to be. I am merely the hand whose responsibility it is to ignite the cylinder of quicklime, the man who would be hesitant to even consider myself the playwright, as so often I did little more than take dictation. But, in the interest of honesty, not only in regard to myself, but for the sake of another great man who faced unfortunate misrepresentation because of my narrative clumsiness and fear, I feel it my duty to record the truth. It is my unrealistic hope that if these pages are eventually uncovered they will be looked upon with a sympathetic eye, for it would wound me it ways I cannot express if my words tarnished the name of my dear friend, Holmes.

As a doctor, particularly during my time in the service, occasionally a situation would arise where I might have to inflict pain on my patient, be it in the extraction of a bullet threatening to turn septic, setting a shattered bone or the amputation of an infected limb. What I have learned, when it comes to cutting out the bad, when there is no way to relieve the hurt, is that speed is everything. Therefore, as I turn the scalpel upon my own heart, I hope I might be excused the lack of eloquence. The Watson of _four continents_ and the husband of the smart and utterly unrivalled Mary Morstan is a man of myth, the fabrication of a poor soul so afraid of his true self that he pretended lying in the Strand was anything beyond lying to himself. 

Of course I am ashamed of myself, as was Morstan (whose real name I am still beneath oath not to reveal), but so consumed was I with the preservation and presentation of a certain level of heroism that I neglected horribly the feelings of others. It was unfortunate, selfish and unfair. If it had all ended in a rapid, fictional wedding, I might consider myself worthy of forgiveness, but no. Like all those guilty of churning a lie mine quickly grew to unexpected proportions. It was panic that brought her inconsistently into the Strand and it was panic and guilt that had me banish her to an undeserved grave.

So great is my debt to this woman that, while her anonymity shall forever be preserved, I feel she deserves the praise and reverence for some of her fine accomplishments. The simple truth is that her father’s ill-gotten treasure was not scattered to the bottom of the Thames, but quite whole and intact within the unopened chest. But as she felt there was far too much blood staining her found fortune, she felt it necessary to renounce any benefit. Instead, as far as I know, it was all donated to various causes and charities and she became the patron of many young women who sought equality in education and politics. A great number of these organisations are further outlined in my final will and testament though it is my hope, and indeed hers as well, that when my day should come there will be little need for any more support. 

**[pages missing]**

_[Editors’ note: The following paragraph has been reconstructed to the best of our ability. The pages suffered water and ink damage. It is unknown whether this was accidental or intentional censorship]_

I owe a great deal to Sherlock Holmes, a truth that none of my readership will doubt and one that I am quick to bestow on any listener who wishes to broach the subject. In him I found a trusted friend and loyal companion and in me he found use for a tired, injured soldier and for that I will forever be grateful beyond measure. There are, however, a number of benefits and blessings that I attribute to Holmes that are of a far more intimate nature which I am less inclined to thrust upon my audience, but I shall include them here with that hope that one day, perhaps in a future far too distant for me to fathom, the world will look upon these truths without judgement, scorn or upset and that this same imagined audience will understand and forgive the masking lies present in so many of my other stories.

_[Editor’s note: Undamaged text resumes.]_

Committing adventures to the page is easy when they are in themselves extraordinary. As Holmes has said himself, _“life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent”_. Indeed, he was to me, always infinitely stranger than any fiction. Many evenings I spent musing over nothing but his mechanics not only because he fascinated, but because reflecting upon some outward force was far easier for me to do than to turn the examination inward. For far too long, I coped with my emotions the way I felt any man who served his country ought to -- dismissal. On occasion, even denial, or far worse -- they would manifest themselves within my writing as the sheer opposite of my true intent. 

What other explanation is there for describing the very object of my desire -- the very person who caused my heart to thrust itself so violently into my throat and nearly stopped my breathing -- as “ _a little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow_ ” as “ _a lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking_ ”? When, in truth, what I meant to say that he was refined, lithe, as perfectly sculpted as to suggest the muses of Athens took pride in him as their personal handiwork? 

I am jaded, I am cruel. I teased and dismissed Holmes when he insisted upon keeping a photograph of Irene Adler in remembrance because I had no such fortune. I was forever taunted by Inspector Lestrade’s frequent visits. By his interest -- _not in me_ \-- but in the work of deduction’s master. 

Deduction. 

At times, in truth, for _years_ , I believed that Holmes attempted to teach me his methods for his own amusement. So convinced was I that the powers he possessed were unique that I could not see the worth in his technique as it might apply to my own life. He said once, perhaps famously by now that: “It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts”. I heard it, indeed, I recorded it without the faintest notion that I had -- myself -- built around me a house of bricks that I’d made _without_ clay. So sure was I in my own decisions, that every kind word from Lestrade’s gentle mouth, every inquisitive glance or thoughtful touch was little more than a dagger which cut straight through me. 

It should be noted now, that one detail I did not fabricate or embellish in the faintest was Lestrade’s _bulldog tenacity_. As convinced as I was that I was not his prize, even moreso did he believe I was nothing but. 

Then came one afternoon in March which, for the life of me I can only remember as unseasonably bright and warm. It may well have been as dismal and grey as most days in spring and the weather in my memory may simply be coloured by the particularly bright and warm events of the day. The mind can play many tricks, and I’m sure that Holmes might wish me to consult either newspaper or Almanac to confirm my belief and base it in fact but as the temperature of the day has little to do with what happened, it’s an inaccuracy that I -- myself -- might forgive. 

A telegram arrived at three in the afternoon (this, I’m sure of as I am looking at the telegram itself. Let it never be said that I’m not somewhat sentimental) from the Inspector bidding my audience at the Langham Hotel, just south of Regency Park and quite close to the Baker street lodgings I shared with Holmes. I showed it to the detective, assuming that a request for me was one for us both, but he waved it away with a word about how he had more pressing matters than the whims of Scotland Yard. He was smiling at the time with a sort of childish mirth that left me suspicious. While I always do my best to receive his ways with the benefit of the doubt, I do worry about him from time to time when he’s left to his own devices and did consider not keeping the appointment at all. 

But that isn’t entirely true. My reasons for wishing to be anywhere but at the Langham were not entirely the fault of Holmes. As weighted as I had become by my own dark opinions of what could never be, the thought of seeing Lestrade alone perplexed me. But as I had always, in my service with Holmes, done my best to accommodate the Yard, I set aside my personal misgivings, donned my best bowler, and set out for the luxurious hotel. 

_[Editor’s Note: This concludes this portion of these journals]._

 

 

He knew he was taking a risk, that asking Watson here with the reasons he intended could be damaging not only to his heart, but to his career -- his life. But he was positive that he saw something in the way they looked at each other that had to be more than just friendship or mutual respect. He was also quite sure, thanks in part to the ever-available opinions of Sherlock Holmes -- that he lacked the imagination to _fabricate_ what existed. It was either there or it wasn’t and in this case, he was sure it was.

But he’d been wrong in the past, hadn’t he? More than once he’d have shut the case with the wrong culprit in his paws if it hadn’t been for a certain consulting detective’s expert interference. Perhaps, in a way, he almost hoped that if he was making a mistake now, it would be Holmes to appear before him to ward him away. It was a nonsense idea, surely. Holmes was perceptive, but to think he might be knowing in matters such as these seemed odd to consider. 

By the time his nerves had run themselves a bit ragged, but just before he’d sat long enough to second guess his plan completely, John arrived. He walked into the Langham’s restaurant with a quiet command that Lestrade was positive Watson wasn’t even realised he possessed. He turned heads, as of course he would, because he was an entirely unrivaled specimen of a man. He looked smart, if a bit unsure, but the sight of him expanded Lestrade’s chest. Not quite with confidence, but with resolve. Either he would have him or he would not but living as he was was unacceptable. Lestrade held his tongue as Watson’s eyes searched the restaurant and found him and he couldn’t help the small feeling of _pride_ that tilted his chin higher when the other man joined him at the table. 

Lestrade held his breath as Watson slid into the seat opposite. They were here now, whatever they wanted, whatever they could have, would be decided now and decided together. It would only take a moment. An eternal moment, yes, but just one more.


End file.
